me wildly excited during the proceedings. Four or five times he
interrupted the reading of the charge. He gesticulated, pointing at Miss
Million, and crying: "Yes! Yes! She's in the pay of this udder one. Do
you see? This girl Smith, that we find out has an assumed name, vot?
Easy to see who is the head of the firma----

"Yes; she is the beauty vot would not have her boxes looked at. Coming
to a hotel mit empty boxes, vot does that look like, yes? Two young
girls, very shabby, and presently tog demselves out in the most
sexbensive clothes. How they get them, no?"

The magistrate broke in severely with something about "What Mr.
Rattenheimer had to say would be attended to presently."

"I say get the girl, and do not let her to be at large whoever say they
will pay for her. Get this woman Lovelace; she is the one we want,"
vociferated the awful little Hebrew; a little later on I think it was,
but the whole police-court scene is one hideous confusion to me now.
"Don't let her to esgabe through our hands, this girl, Beatrice
Lovelace----"

My name, my real name, seemed to echo and resound all through that
dreadful place. I didn't know before that I had always, at the bottom of
my heart, been proud of the old name.

Yes! Even if it has been brought down to belonging to a family of
nouveaux-pauvres, who are neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. Even
if it is like having a complete motoring-kit, and no earthly chance of
ever possessing a motor to wear it in!

Even so, it's a name that belonged to generation after generation of
brave fighters; men who have served under Nelson and Wellington, Clive
and Roberts!

It's their blood, theirs and that of the women who loved them, that ran
hot and angry in my veins to-day, flushing my cheeks with scarlet fury
to hear that name profaned in the mouth of a little stuttering,
jewel-grabbing alien, who's never had a sword, or even a rifle, in his
hand!

I turned my indignant eyes from him. And my eyes met, across the court,
the eyes of another woman who wears the name of Lovelace!

Heavens! There was my Aunt Anastasia, sitting bolt upright in the
gallery and listening to the case. Her face was whiter than Million's,
and her lips were an almost imperceptible line across it!

How did she know? How had she come there? I didn't at that moment
realise the truth--namely, that the Scotland Yard officials had been
busy with their inquiries, not only at what Miss Million calls the Ho